We're born, a blur, we die,A window, a view, our eyes,On rusted tracks our lives are shuttled,Time is close and ever subtle.But I refuse.

You close your eyes but mine want to seeI'll conform to no form and rhyme with no linesAnd you know what? I'll do that now.fuck structure and grammar and punctuation and propir speling i wont even bother to use paragraphs correctly because why should we if everything all this you're reading is just a means to an end and if different means work then why end at this.this should be a beginning a rebellion of sorts from the shackles we're taught to admire to desire to wear with such pride knowing how they restrict but we're fixed on being fixed butwhen was i ever broken ?youre doing this wrong youre doing this wrong on and on from teachers and people who know what they know but let it all go in place of routine and what the fuck does that mean if you can't even choose what way you existits a pervasive illusion that dreaming is useless and the answer we crave is only portrayed with BUT EVERYONE ELSE DOES IT does this mean its okay? No, I shouldn't think so.but my voice will be drowned by the mechanical sounds of incessant hums and disapproving sighs of those who have lived longer lives and i hope youre around when i reach your age to show what i found could have replaced the hollowed out empty of the space you have spent your entire lives trying to fill with what people have told you willbut until then my forehead has something to say:yt5tr4guhyjWell said, forehead. That pretty much sums it up.